Today's poem is by Zachary Harris
Sometimes the living make us very sad. This is not an unusual condition.
There is a fine bronze threaded through the pears and butter. I am sad
for this bronze. I am sad when I watch Bea Arthur on television. Once
I saw a dead fish, unblemished, half-buried in the mud on the lip of a
pond. I mistook it for a knife, and I was sad first for the fish, and sad
second for myself, who so easily lapsed into the sinister. I am sad when
Bea slips on a beaded caftan the color of a nightcat because now that
caftan is empty and guileless. There is a certain way in which the sunset
directs the light in my third-floor walk-up. I am sad to have to pick up
these pieces. Bea eats cheesecake, and I am sad first for her because
no one should eat that much cheesecake, and sad second for myself,
for having none. It makes me sad to read Oliver Twist because I have
often felt orphaned. There is a way in which everyone is an orphan.
Bea is going out on a date. She kisses her smallish mother goodnight,
opens the door, and sees that there are no stars.
Copyright © 2009 Zachary Harris All rights reserved
from Ninth Letter
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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